Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.
As life grows more terrible, its literature grows more terrible.
A poem need not have a meaning and like most things in nature often does not have.
They said, 'You have a blue guitar, / You do not play things as they are.' / The man replied, 'Things as they are / Are changed upon the blue guitar.'
It is the unknown that excites the ardor of scholars, who, in the known alone, would shrivel up with boredom.
People ought to like poetry the way a child likes snow & they would if poets wrote it.